


it’s not what you do with the knife (it’s how you hold it after)

by sevener



Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate History, Empires - Freeform, Forced Servitude, Historical Fantasy, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Starvation, M/M, Trauma, Trauma Recovery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25316506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevener/pseuds/sevener
Summary: He caught himself right as his gaze started to lift, cut it back down towards the floor. It was that damn instinct again, the impulse to seek clarification, confirmation. The part of his mind that still doubted. Caleb stared unseeing at the hand in front of him.“Clean it.”
Relationships: OMC & OMC, OMC/OMC
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. tapestry unravelled

**Author's Note:**

> This work explores themes of trauma and post-trauma in the context of forced servitude including implied sexual servitude. Mind the tags, and see end notes for detailed chapter-specific content warnings; message/comment if you would like these warnings expanded.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Title from Yasmin Belkhyr's "Surah Al-Fatiha"

“Eat.”

The morsel was held out in front of him, pinched between thick, pale fingers weighed in rings of heavy gold. Au jus dripped slow over broad knuckles, dribbling down onto the marble floor below.

Meat.

Caleb tilted his head forward, trying at a slow, silent grace to mask his hunger. Those fingers wouldn’t lift the bite any closer, they barely wavered as Caleb strained to reach. He took the steak delicately between his teeth, swallowing convulsively against the watering of his mouth. 

Flavour exploded over his tongue and raced to the back of his throat, salty and rich and bloody. For once Caleb kept his eyes lowered without difficulty, savouring the single bite. His body stilled itself - every twitch of reaction, every quiver of ecstasy suppressed into a complete and total motionlessness. The closest imitation of privacy he could afford.

“Good puppy.”

Caleb swallowed his bite. 

Slowly, so slow that he felt the burn of it in his core, he let his spine unbend away from that hand, straightening his back into a perfect kneeling posture.

“Ah,”

Caleb froze.

“Lick.”

He caught himself right as his gaze started to lift, cut it back down towards the floor. It was that damn instinct again, the impulse to seek clarification, confirmation. The part of his mind that still doubted. 

Caleb stared unseeing at the hand in front of him.

“Clean it.”

There was no change in the tone of the voice. It was that same, unbothered calm, a studied boredom, but pure adrenaline raced down Caleb’s spine at the command. 

Caleb had made him repeat himself.

He felt his body try to lock, seizing stillness in an attempt to brace itself, to become more object than breathing thing, but Caleb fought it, clawing at the fog. He had to move, had to respond to the order. His fingers dug deep into tense thighs, and it was with an odd, detached awareness that Caleb made his spine dip, made it curve in a yielding arc until he was back within that hand’s reach. Forced his jaw to unlock and his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth, accepting the intrusion.

Salt. Skin. Blood.

The sensation under his tongue was faintly akin to leather - musky and calloused. The sharp of Caleb’s tooth nicked accidentally against soft gold, blood-warm metal that sat heavy on his tongue. Thick fingers pushed further into his mouth, and a manicured nail caught at the soft inside of his cheek, splitting it open. The nauseating tang of iron welled up afresh, and Caleb worried for a second that he wouldn’t be able to control his gag reflex.

“More wine, please.”

An unfamiliar voice intruded at a distance; a man speaking from across the room. 

Caleb suppressed his flinch and didn’t dare stop in his task, ducking closer to lave his tongue over the thick bone at the wrist of the proffered hand, au jus tasting of ash in his mouth. But that voice. It was like being lifted out of deep sleep and tossed into an icebath.

Awareness came rushing unpleasantly in, and Caleb’s eyes burned with the effort of fixing to the floor once more. He became conscious of how his knees protested the long night spent on cold marble, how the breeze of other servants moving across the room to refill chalices and whisk away plates tickled at his bare, exposed skin. Caleb nearly gagged against the harsh drag of finger-pads over the back of his tongue, saliva rolling out past his lips and over his chin.

“Enjoying the show?” asked the slow, bored voice above him. 

The taste of steak was completely gone from the now, but Caleb didn’t let up, didn’t pull away from those fingers even as they felt over the ridges of his molars, pressed into the soft hollow underneath his tongue. Caleb’s stomach tightened, and for a second it was all he could do to breathe and not heave up his insides.

“Hm,” The man across the room grunted. “Not particularly, no. I was never one for playing with my dinner.”

The hand retreated from his mouth, then, and Caleb let himself gulp in air as quietly as he could manage. His eyes were open only as slits, the image of leather-clad thighs spread casually over their gilded seat wavering sickly in front of him, but Caleb wouldn’t let himself the reprieve of total darkness, could never let his eyes fully close in this marble room.

“Back to business then,” was the easy reply. 

There was the sound of rustling fabric above, and then a scarlet napkin landed on Caleb’s knees, dark with his own spit wiped from fingers.

Caleb straightened, locking the muscles of his shoulders and back. He ignored the napkin, ignored the discomfort of sticky saliva cooling across his chin. He could no longer feel the part of himself that wanted to reach out, that would bring him to lift his hand and wipe his face. He knew better, by now.

Caleb’s let his eyes slide out of focus, and his breath slowed towards that comfortable, familiar place where the last ten minutes fell away into nothingness, into that unreachable black void so far down, yet so close beneath the surface. But he couldn’t get there completely. There was something itching at him, something pulling at the edges of his mind. A loose thread worried, a tapestry on the verge of unravel. The voice of the man across the room nagged at him, drawing him out of his haze.

“…had enough of these pleasantries. I think it’s time we talk seriously on terms of agreement, unless your intention has simply been for me to gain an appreciation of the local cuisine.”

“You are unfailingly direct as always, Decurion Hamia,” came the drawled answer. “Though I’m not _quite_ sure I enjoy it. Admittedly, I have a preference for drawn out foreplay.”

Caleb gritted his teeth as his heart rate picked up involuntarily, latching on to the slightest catch in that bored tone.

“Fortunate that I’m not here on account of my charm then,” the man replied steadily. 

Caleb blinked. There was something there- _that name, Hamia._ The urge to turn his head rose up again, and Caleb had to duck his chin so that he wouldn’t, couldn’t. 

And then he froze.

He could just make out the corner of a glossy boot at the edge of his vision, still turned away, but he didn’t dare feel relief. The force of the gaze that rested upon him was like a physical touch, an awareness beyond words. It was clear that Caleb’s small, unsanctioned movement had not escaped attention.

“Personally, I think my offer is quite generous.”

Caleb took a slow, silent breath through his nose. The man- the _Decurion,_ no less, was either incredibly dense or entirely too observant. Caleb couldn’t be sure, but for a moment it had nearly seemed that the soldier’s voice had been strained. Just the slightest quiver, syllables pushing too close together, the words rushing out. Like the Decurion had noticed that gaze pull in Caleb’s direction, and wanted it back, on him alone. 

“Quite,” the voice said at last, followed by the soft _clink_ of cutlery, a plate being pushed away. “But, I have more to consider than simple cost, as you know. Surely you won’t mind, given the delicate nature of our discussion, that I consult my advisors before we settle on the matter?”

It wasn’t a request so much as a chess piece moved across the board. Perhaps even a prod at that odd slip in the Decurion’s composure, testing whether the hint of imprudence had any real desperation laying underneath.

“Of course,” the Decurion answered easily, clearly about his wits enough not to give anything more away. “If it pleases his Exarch, I would retire the evening and leave further negotiations until his consultants may be convened?”

A heavy hand settled then on Caleb’s head, thick fingers tangling in the curls. Caleb suppressed a startle at the renewed awareness of his body, the prickle of pain as his chin was forced further down towards his chest.

“What pleases me…”

The hand drifted to the back of Caleb’s skull, a stroking motion that could very nearly have been a caress, if not for the sharp press of nails over his scalp. Fingers found purchase in his hair, and with a single, harsh tug Caleb’s head was jerked back painfully, and he found himself staring at the high arches of the ceiling above. His throat closed around a cry of pain just before it could be given voice. 

“It pleases me to know, Decurion Hamia, precisely what sort of man I might be bringing into accord.”

The only reply was a chair creaking at the far end of the room as it surrendered its occupant, followed by the precise, measured click of polished boots across cold marble as the Decurion approached.

Caleb’s muscles burned with the strain of holding the position, his back bowed in a long, terrible arc over his heels. It was becoming more and more difficult to pull breath, and he held his inhale as those crisp footsteps finally reached his side. The man stopped, far enough that Caleb couldn’t see much more than the hint of dark curls above him.

“The you should first know, your Excellency, that I am a man who values discretion above all else.”

The pressure at the back of Caleb’s head fell away suddenly, and he nearly toppled backwards. The chair next to him pushed back, and Caleb snapped to attention, moving quickly out of the way before a polished boot-tip could catch him in the face.

“After me.” 

Heavy footfalls crossed towards the eastern door, pausing only once it became clear that the Decurion wasn’t immediately following.

“I’m not one to be kept waiting.” An unveiled warning this time. “It knows not to move until I say, now come.”

The Decurion didn’t hesitate a second time, departing from Caleb’s side with a soft _woosh_ , the edge of his velvet cape trailing goosebumps across bare skin of Caleb’s knee. For a moment Caleb indulged in a brief fantasy that both men would simply leave the room, leave him behind. Alone. But that voice, ringing out just as the men turned towards the corridor, forestalled him.

“Crawl, puppy.”

And Caleb got on his hands and knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Content Warnings:  
> Forced Servitude; Verbal Degradation and Depersonification (POV Character is referred to as an object/animal); Dissociation; References to Starvation


	2. black sea

His joints were aching down to the marrow by the time he finally trailed into the room, the single corridor a long slog over exposed stone. 

Nobody turned to acknowledge him as he passed through the doorway and into the hearthsroom, where a single pair of shining combat boots stood next to the burning fireplace. Another balanced casually over the end of an opulent chaise longue. 

“Out.”

It was only because Caleb strained to hear that he caught it - the sound of the air barely stirring as a dozen or so maidservants obligingly left the room, a staff more presence than person. Most in the Palazzo had been raised since birth in the art of attendance, and Caleb often envied the effortless way they bent in obeisance, moving sight unseen at the barest command.

The doors _snicked_ softly behind the last of the servants, and Caleb sat back on his knees in the centre of the room, two feet off from the sprawling, spartan bed buttressed against the back wall. In front of him, the Decurion appeared to be studying the mantle, his back turned so that all Caleb could see were glossy black curls and the blood red cape of the Praetorian Guard. There was a time when the sight would have stirred something in Caleb - hope, resentment, betrayal - but he’d long since faced the truth. There was nothing to do now but brace himself for it.

“Come here, mutt.”

Caleb turned to the body reclining over the divan, feet kicked up close to the heat of the fire. He inched over on his knees, careful not to let his skin catch and squeak on the burnished floors, and as soon as Caleb was in reach a large hand settled back into his hair, petting over him. 

Caleb’s chin dropped as he steadied his breath.

“You seem like a smart man, Hamia.”

The Decurion turned. He didn’t take the opposite seat, but stood at four or five paces off, still by the hearth. There was nothing visible of him but his black boots, perfectly and meticulously shined. Caleb tried not to let the detail unnerve him, the fact that he’d yet to see the soldier’s face. It wouldn’t matter, if he never did.

“It means much to hear you say that, your Exaltedness, sir.”

“Hmm. And so accommodating too. Is that why you haven’t asked?”

At that, the silence that fell over the room was so absolute it seemed even the fire had frozen still in the hearth.

“Asked?”

Fingers tightened in Caleb’s hair, and he passively let his head fall back into the grip, let his chin tip up towards the ceiling, baring his neck. 

“Hmm. I know you’ve recognized my darling little pet.”

Caleb carefully suppressed the shudder that tried to wrack his body, the useless instinct to shake off that grip like a panicked animal. To flee. He knew his chest was rising and falling faster now, but he couldn’t help it, felt like he was drowning on every dry breath.

“It hardly seemed my place to inquire as to what I may plainly see for myself,” the Decurion said, even as Caleb heard him take a step closer.

There was another purring hum of approval. “Tactful, though not everyone would be so sure their eyes did not deceive.” 

The fingers that ran through Caleb’s hair turned feather-light. “The most effective disguise, it seems, is no disguise at all. A simple stripping back of those awful Praetorian dressings, and we uncover the raw truth underneath.”

The hand in his hair tightened and jerked, rattling Caleb’s teeth in his skull.

There was no laugh. No breath of agreement. When the Decurion spoke again, it was in a strange tone. 

“I can say honestly, I thought I might never see him again.”

Caleb’s heart pounded. That voice. That _name._ It was so familiar. A memory lost and hidden in the recesses of his mind, if only he could focus past the pain of holding his body bent backwards, think of anything but the noxious presence at his shoulder, the rough fingers stroking down across his chest, groping lazily at a nipple.

“You were personally acquainted?”

“I served under him, years ago,” Hamia replied evenly, without inflection. “When word came of Praetor Ades’ disappearance I, of course, assumed him dead.”

Caleb had thought he’d braced himself, but the words still cut deep, in that small, soft part of him that still remembered; his life, _before._ What he’d left behind. 

_Dead_.

“Praetor Ades _is_ dead,” purred that voice, finally dropping its carefully controlled timbre as a hand trailed down the exposed length of Caleb’s stomach. Caleb set his jaw, staring at the blank white ceiling. His eyes were dry and wide open. “This thing on its knees is my toy - my plaything. My housebroken dog.”

The hand turned rough, suddenly, on tender skin, and Caleb wasn’t able to suppress the whole of his groan as it crawled up his throat. The fingers pinched harder in response, twisting, and Caleb took a long, deep breath so that he wouldn’t scream.

“Decurion Hamia,” growled that voice, so far away and so near at once. “I’m trying very, very hard not to be insulted by your lack of enthusiasm for my lovely pet, but now my patience is worn thin. Is it truly not to your liking?”

The footsteps didn’t come any closer. “My apologies, your Eminence, sir.” 

It was hard for Caleb to focus past his body, past the pain and the distant, humiliating knowledge of that crawling, invasive touch, but Caleb faintly registered that the Decurion’s voice sounded much further away now, as if thrown from the depths of the room.

“I didn’t dare presume an offer where one hadn’t been set to me,” explained Hamia. “Were I wrong, my boldness would be due cause for your affront and offence six times over.”

“Ten times, at least,” corrected the voice behind him, and Caleb could hear the wide smile in it. This soldier had a clear talent for flattery and grovelling, apparently withheld at dinner, present in full force now. Or- maybe that wasn’t quite right. The acquiescence had started even at the table, just as soon as the negotiations had ended.

“But now there is no need to doubt.” Words purred in his ear. “I am a generous man, and my fucktoy is so eager. Insatiable, really. It would so please me for you to take use of it.”

The hand in his hair released him with a shove and Caleb fell suddenly forward, catching himself on sore palms. The quiver that ran through his body was unstoppable, then, muscles seizing compulsively. Caleb dug his short nails hard against the floor, letting the sting distract him from the feeling of his body moving out of his control.

The man, Hamia, cut a sharp path across the room, across the polished floors to where Caleb was bent over, frozen. Then came the wretchedness, as Caleb begged and fought and struggled with himself to _just get up_ , to rise up off his knees and sprint from the room, away and away and away, and the awful moment where he had to force himself not to. Force himself to stay, because he already knew. There was no running from this.

He could hear Hamia breathing above him, harsh and fast. 

Excited. Hungry.

“Go on then,” growled the voice.

Caleb didn’t close his eyes. He stared straight ahead at the gilded feet of the chaise longue in front of him, and waited.

And then several things happened at once.

_Tick_. 

A small, innocuous sound, a pebble glancing off of a window-pane. It came from the end wall of the room. Caleb wouldn’t have noticed it much at all, had Hamia not instantly reacted to the noise. 

The Decurion took a quick step, not towards Caleb, but away on his heel, turning to the couch behind, to the man resting there without a care or fear in the world. 

There was a harsh snap, a thin cord pulling taught, and then the unmistakable sounds of two men grappling for their lives:

An aborted yell, a grunt, flat heels squeaking over polished floors. Caleb felt his breath in his chest, heaving, and he was frozen. He couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t will his muscles out of their locked position, couldn’t so much as turn his head to look behind him. He knew those sounds, the muffled impact of a fist against ribs, the shatter of a crystal glass knocked from its perch, but he couldn’t even begin to understand them. 

_It’s a test_ , whispered a voice in his mind, _they planned this, it’s an act to get you to fail, to disobey._

Caleb shook with it. The desire to turn, the knowledge that he wouldn’t, and even as the groans behind him turned to gasps, and the gasps into wet, broken gurgles, Caleb stayed exactly, perfectly, still.

And then footsteps rushed him, and a body fell to its knees before him, tangling red velvet and soft grey linen, black curls and desperate brown eyes. 

“Caleb.”

Hands gripped Caleb’s forearms, squeezing him, hard.

“Caleb. Caleb, Caleb. Look at me, please.”

And Caleb raised his head. 

Not in acquiescence to the command. It was that voice, soft and breaking over his given name. Those eyes. Those eyes that _knew_ _him_.

“Reza,” Caleb croaked. 

Hands crushed into Caleb’s back, pushing them so close that Caleb could feel every one of Reza’s violent, breathless gasps like he was breathing them in his own chest. Felt Reza’s heart pounding against his own ribs. Caleb ached with it. His skin was alight with hot fire. His mind kept trying to grab hold of the situation, slipped on the impossibility and splintered off again.

“You-” Caleb choked, struggling for breath. “How are you-”

Reza pulled back, but just barely. Just far enough that they were face to face, his brown eyes flitting over Caleb’s face like he’d never seen it before, like he’d seen it a thousand times and needed to see it a thousand more. 

Caleb himself felt like he could hardly look at the man, the wetness at the corner of his eyes, the dark beard he’d grown since Caleb had last seen him, carving out his cheeks and making him look so much older. How long had it been? He hadn’t allowed himself to count the days.

“I’m here,” breathed Reza, and Caleb let the words cut him through, let them pierce him right to the core. 

Relief, anger and humiliation shuddered in his chest, broke him open from the inside and threatened to pull him under completely. It had been too long since he’d done anything more than survive, and surviving meant you couldn’t let any of it touch you - the pain, the disgust, the fear. None of it could be true. If it were true you would never go home again.

Caleb grit his teeth against it, trying desperately to shut that door, but it was hopeless. There were hands on him, they were warm and familiar, pressing him close. He breathed in a desperate sob against Reza’s shoulder, tasting his own sweat and tears and, underneath, a scent he’d thought lost to him forever. 

“I’m here, Caleb. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him, I had to stall for time, for the signal. I should have just killed him, but I let him-”

Caleb took a heaving breath against the pain that speared him, and they were both shaking now. Reza’s strong body held him up, but Caleb could feel the fine tremor in it, the shake in Reza’s warm palms as they ran up and down his bare back.

“He.” Caleb gasped. “Is he-”

“Dead,” confirmed Reza, and his voice was entirely steady around the word. “I know it’s going to make everything harder, the Praetors warned me, that I shouldn’t.”

Caleb’s mind reeled, and he pressed harder into Reza’s shoulder, bracing as his stomach swooped nauseously. 

Dead. 

The Exarch was dead. And the Praetorship wouldn’t be pleased, which meant that the political situation in Vesunna- and the High Consul- 

Caleb’s blood turned cold.

“I can’t be sorry Caleb, I can’t be,” Reza choked out. “There was no stopping it, not after what he’d done, I couldn’t stop.”

Reza’s voice was almost a whisper, wretched and pained. He held his dark head bowed, eyes hidden behind the fall of his hair. Even as he said he wasn’t sorry, Reza kneeled before Caleb like a penitent.

Caleb reached out, caught Reza under the chin and gently tipped his face up. The man looked hangdog, his gentle features drooping with sorrow, but untouched by remorse. Caleb thumbed under his eyes, found the brown skin smooth and dry under his hand - no tears, but still, the ritual gesture of comfort made Reza smile. 

_Don’t_ Caleb wanted to say, _don’t grieve for what’s already done,_ but he was strangely cold now. Empty. The words wouldn’t come.

_Tick_.

That peculiar sound came from the back of the room again, and a sudden urgency rolled back through Reza as he pulled away.

“We have to go, now.”

Reza raised hands to his throat, to the cloakpin there, and then soft wool was being pulled over Caleb’s bare shoulders. “We’ll get you some real clothes soon, but now we need to stand.”

Standing. It was easier said than done. He’d been deprived of his stretches for days now, and his muscles were already sore from sitting for hours through dinner.

Reza must have sensed his hesitancy, or perhaps he caught the look of pain that came over Caleb’s face as he got his feet under him, because he offered out his arm. Caleb found himself staring at it dumbly.

“Here, brace against me.”

Something like relief swept through him, as he realized Reza wasn’t going to attempt to carry him. Standing under his own power felt impossibly good, even as it took Reza’s arm around his waist to get Caleb across the room, teeth clenched against the spasm and throb of his untried muscles.

At the far end of the hearthsroom was an open window. The cool air that flowed through it was sweet and fresh, scented by night-blooming trees and the black sea beyond. Caleb breathed deep, resting heavily on the window frame as Reza leaned out of it, exchanging some kind of wordless signal. Caleb could just barely make out shadows moving in the garden below, and he wondered for the first time just how many people were involved in this infiltration, how many men it took to free him. Men who should be posted on their northern front.

And then he wondered wether Isica was even defending the northern front anymore. He’d tried his hardest, to pick up information where he could, when the Exarch had had meetings with important military figures. It’d been easier in the beginning, before Caleb’s mind had started to slip…

“Caleb?”

How many details had he missed? How many names could he have provided to the Praetorship, names of enemies and traitors alike? There had been dozens, dozens of meetings and bribes and politicians extorted…

“Caleb!”

Reza was waiving a concerned hand in front of Caleb’s face, carefully not touching him even as he shot nervous glances at the door. Clearly there was still the possibility that a palace guard might burst in at any moment. “We have to go. Now.”

Caleb stared at him. Half-formed thoughts tripped quickly through his mind, and he steeled himself before turning back towards the room, the divan, the body crumpled there. He felt as if he were moving underwater, breathing in thick liquid instead of air. He managed a slow step forward. 

“No,” Reza argued, stopping himself just before he could catch Caleb with a restraining arm. He seemed not to want to touch Caleb when it could be helped.

“We don’t have time,” Reza said to him in a harsh whisper. “We have to go.”

“Then help me,” Caleb spat back, limping off towards the fireplace. 

Reza let out a low growl of annoyance behind him, but he still came forward and braced Caleb’s body with his own.

Together they reached the edge of the divan, and Caleb carefully didn’t let himself look, didn’t see pale skin gone even paler and bloodless, didn’t notice grey eyes stuck, forever open and unseeing, ringed with red; a morbid constellation of burst blood vessels. Caleb bent down mechanically next to the corpse and ran his hands under purple silk, pulling back the opulent overcloak.

And then heaved up his insides.

“Shhhh,” Reza soothed him, stroking over Caleb’s back again, the heat of him close at Caleb’s side.

Bile burned in Caleb’s nose and he spat, trying to blink away the tears that clouded over his vision. He squinted, and noticed he’d thrown up his meagre dinner all over that expensive, tailored overcloak. A shudder passed involuntarily through him.

Caleb ignored the tremor of his hands as he went back to the familiar fastenings of the jacket underneath, and Reza sighed over his shoulder. “Caleb, you don’t have to do this. We need to leave, now.”

“No,” Caleb gritted his teeth as the complicated buckles finally gave way under his fingers, and he flipped open the silky inside lining, finding the edge of a pocket covertly hidden. “I need this.”

Papers, envelopes and missives, all scrawled on a thick parchment and adorned with the signet of the Exarch in broken wax. He didn’t have time to read through the stack, so Caleb took them all without looking. There would be something amongst the lot - something useful. He wished, suddenly, that they had more time, thinking of the locked study down the hall. He was almost positive he knew where to find the key.

But Reza was already pulling him to his feet, slinging an arm around Caleb’s waist and steering him to the open window. Caleb gripped the papers tightly, fingers creasing the expensive stationery, terrified he’d drop them.

There was a thick rope resting on the sill of the window when they reached it, but Caleb couldn’t see anywhere to tie the loose end.

“What are we-”

“Give me the papers,” interrupted Reza, and Caleb took a step back on instinct. Reza didn’t look surprised, nor offended.

“Caleb, listen. I’m going to hold this rope, and you’re going to climb down it.” Reza said patiently. “You’ll need both hands.”

Caleb looked doubtfully at the rope, and then doubtfully at Reza. “Are you sure you’re strong enough?”

A pained look flit over Reza’s face before he could suppress it, and for a moment Caleb didn’t understand. The fact that it took him several long seconds to catch on - _to remember -_ scared him more than anything in that moment. He’d spent too long here, and it was written not only over his mind but in his body, in the ribs that were now all too prominent under anaemic skin, wrists gone thin with hunger. 

“Right,” Caleb swallowed. “Then I guess the question is whether _I’ll_ be strong enough to climb.”

Reza grabbed the rope and gestured Caleb over, “It’s knotted, so that should help. I’ll try to lower you some, and Amir is down there to catch you if you fall.”

Caleb looked out of the window but couldn’t see anyone in the thick shadows below. It was only a storey drop, but Caleb wasn’t sure of what his body could handle anymore.

“We have to do this now, Caleb.” Reza said urgently. “Trust me?”

Caleb’s heart pounded. Reza’s brown eyes were wide, imploring, and his face was brave and familiar. Caleb couldn’t answer. His voice was stuck in his throat and no amount of swallowing seemed to unstick it, so Caleb simply shoved the stack of papers into Reza’s hands instead, forcing himself to take a deep breath as he turned toward the window.

Reza lifted the thick rope up and shook it once. The rope went momentarily taught as someone pulled it from the bottom, and Reza nodded at Caleb, who climbed out onto the sill.

His feet felt terribly unsteady on the thin perch, and his whole body lurched with his stomach as he gripped above the first knot in the rope and leaned his weight out of the window. The breeze that had seemed gentle and welcoming inside now felt violent, buffeting his body like a sail in a storm.

“I’m going to lower you most of the way.” Reza’s face was reduced to a silhouette, backlit by the light of the hearth inside, but Caleb could hear that his breaths were even and relaxed, not strained in the least by Caleb’s weight.

“If you feel your arms giving out then click your tongue. Otherwise try not to make any noise.”

And with that Caleb felt the rope start to give, and he hurried to get his feet set against the wall in front of him, walking down slowly backwards. His arms and shoulders were already starting to burn, but Caleb forced the pain to the back of his mind, locking his fingers in a tight grip.

He was several feet into his descent when noises came from above him, the murmur of unintelligible voices. Reza was saying something back in a loud, even tone when Caleb suddenly dropped in a sickening lurch.

Three seconds of free fall felt endless in the dark, before the rope caught him again abruptly. Caleb bit down on a noise of pain as his body crashed against stone, his left calf and thigh burning hot as they scraped against the uneven surface. He could hear Reza talking above him, still in that casual voice, and Caleb shook himself quickly. He unclenched one hand from the rope and slid it down, feeling for the next knot blindly. He suspected they were really running out of time now.

He had no idea how Reza was going to get down after him.

Panic spiked along Caleb’s spine at the thought and he dropped his weight down the rope, grasping for the next knot. Bright spots burst across his vision and his muscles screamed at him, but he kept his pace agonizingly measured. The thought of losing his grip entirely was the only thing worse than moving slowly. The rope wasn’t lowering any more, and Caleb wondered if that meant that Reza was trying to be quiet, or if he’d heard Caleb hit the wall. At least he could be confident that Reza was alive and well as long as the rope was still holding him.

Caleb had no way to tell how far down he’d climbed, so when hands grabbed suddenly at his back, he flinched hard. It was only habit that kept him from yelling out loud as fear clouded over him suddenly, and he tried desperately to scramble back up the rope, away. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t.

“Easy now,” said a low voice. 

It took several seconds for Caleb’s brain to comprehend the words, spoken in a language he hadn’t heard in far too long, but the tone alone made him cease his struggle. Reza had said there’d be someone at the bottom to catch him, but he hadn’t brought Praetorian Guards or Isican footsoldiers for this. No, there was a Khomerari warrior waiting for Caleb in the dark. 

“Calm yourself, we don’t have much time.”

Caleb breathed in fast through his nose, but he let the hands grip him and pull him gently to the ground. It was pitch black in the shadow of the Palazzo and the man - Amir - was dressed in tight, inky robes that made the bulk of him disappear against their dark surroundings. Caleb could only just make out the shine of his eyes in the moonlight.

“There are horses at thirty paces,” Amir murmured in simple Khomer, slow enough for Caleb to follow. “Stay behind me and move in silence.”

“What about Reza?” Caleb asked, the words coming haltingly, foreign on his tongue.

Amir made a gentle _tsk_ noise and showed his teeth in a wide, white smile, “Don’t worry about him. He’s strong, and tricky.”

Amir moved from his crouch, pulling Caleb across the deserted garden path and into the deeper shade of sculpted bushes and flowering jasmine. Caleb winced every time a twig snapped under his bare feet as he rushed to keep pace with his guide. Amir made barely a sound in front of him, the fall of his feet careful and practiced. He gestured for them to stop every few paces, eyes scanning the deserted paths for signs of hostile movement. There certainly should have been a watch shift at this hour, but as they snaked through the depths of the garden, there wasn’t a guard to be seen.

Despite Amir’s reassurance, Caleb couldn’t help but worry, glancing backwards towards the fading light of the window he’d escaped. Reza’s silhouette was nowhere to be seen, and Caleb was gripped with a panic that Reza hadn’t followed them, had been caught - sacrificed, for Caleb’s freedom, before he noticed that there was something in shadow of the stone wall that appeared to be _moving_.

Somehow, impossibly, Reza was scaling the outside of the Palazzo, clutching at foot holds that couldn’t offer more than a half-inch of grip. His tall body bunched and stretched easily, making quick work of an impossible climb, and he dropped the last few few feet to the ground, landing softly in the dirt below.

Amir didn’t say anything, though Caleb had a feeling the man was thinking _I told you so._ Satisfied that Reza was following, Caleb turned away from the light of the Palazzo, heart beating fast. He hadn’t exactly been calm before this, but now, here, he was suddenly so close. 

Murder. 

Escape. 

Freedom. 

A mere hour ago it had all been unimaginable, _unthinkable_. It still felt like it couldn’t be real. He gripped Amir’s arm and made the sprint out of the garden, out into the open air where they would surely, certainly, be spotted. But they weren’t. He pushed his shaking legs to carry him over to the far tree line, where undoubtedly there would be men waiting, a retinue of palace guards ready to drag him, screaming and kicking, back inside. But there wasn’t.

They made it all the way to the horses, and it was only then that Caleb heard the rushed footfalls of heavy boots over grass. Someone heading right for them.

His stomach plummeted, and before he could steel himself he felt his knees give out. 

He couldn’t go back, he couldn’t, he _wouldn’t_.

A strong arm caught him by the waist before he could fall, jerked him back to his feet, “Be steady now, it is only Reza.”

Relief tried to sweep through Caleb’s body, but he didn’t let himself believe until he saw the shadowed figure crest the ridge of the hill they waited on, until he’d come close enough for Caleb to recognize the fall of his hair, the shape of his wide shoulders and prominent arched nose.

He let out the breath he’d been holding, and found that there was nothing left to allay the exhaustion which overcame him suddenly, along with the terrible trembling of muscle that Caleb couldn’t control. He had nothing to lean on. He couldn’t decide whether to step closer to the horse, or to Reza.

“Caleb,” Reza said, his voice sounding as relieved as Caleb felt. He kept doing that too, Caleb had noticed. Calling him by name, like he couldn’t get enough of saying it. 

Reza swept in close, then, and it was only because of the heat of his body that Caleb noticed how his own was bitterly cold, even in the mild summer night. He stilled his jaw against a full body shiver.

“You’re riding with me,” Reza said, his voice sounding as if from a distance, as if he were standing across the room. Standing in the depths of a room, by an open window. Caleb felt hands close over his, and didn’t know whether to pull away. Whether he even could.

“Fuck, he’s freezing,” Reza said, and Caleb stared at him, uncomprehending. Was Reza talking to him?

There was another voice, syllables that Caleb couldn’t parse, and then a heavy weight settled over his shoulders, something scratchy that smelled like horseflesh. His fingers dug in tight to keep that scratchy heaviness close, and the pain of his stiff knuckles brought Caleb closer to his own eyes, made the picture sharpen back into focus. There was a concerned look on Reza’s face.

“Help me get on the horse,” Caleb said, forming the words slow and deliberate, his tongue suddenly too big in his mouth. He wanted to flinch away again, into that fuzzy place, but he wanted to leave even more. He needed to leave.

Reza looked at him sharply, but didn’t open his mouth to ask questions. He simply offered out his cupped hands and pushed hard to boost Caleb into the saddle. Reza and Amir exchanged hurried whispers for a moment, and then Reza was climbing into place behind Caleb.

Reza’s body was so warm, even through velvet and linen and leather. Caleb couldn’t help but lean back into it. They were the same height, but Reza’s breadth made Caleb feel oddly… compact and, braced against it, sheltered. It hadn’t always. Caleb had been bigger, before. There was so much of him missing now.

Reza directed their horse into a casual gallop, not in the direction of the main entrance but slightly east of it, where Caleb knew a thin river bubbled into existence from earth and stone. It was mostly forest in that direction, uneven ground that would be difficult to navigate on horseback at any speed, especially in the dark. They’d have to go slowly. 

The night was cool and peaceful around them. There was only the faint hum of pincerbacks and what might’ve been the distant _coo_ of a sea-howler; quiet enough that they’d be able to hear any pursuit coming after them for miles out. Caleb couldn’t help but feel a bit strange, at the anticlimax of it all. The Palazzo, an impenetrable fortress; the Exarch, an untouchable man; and he was leaving the both of them behind at a slow trot on horseback. Could it really be that easy?

Somewhere, far behind them, a bell was chiming; ringing its high, panicked note. The alarm had finally been sounded, and the Palazzo would be entirely locked down. There was a chance the Guard would track them, but they had the advantage of time and distance, and the rocky riverbed would obscure their trail even further. Caleb gripped the saddle beneath him tightly as their mount took a tight turn, but Reza handled it expertly, his breaths calm and steady against Caleb’s back. So much could still go wrong. The horse might lose it’s footing, the Palace Guard might be fast, faster than them. They might never make it to the Isican border. 

But in this moment Caleb couldn’t shake it: a single, dangerous, thought.

He was free, and the Exarch was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Content Warnings:  
> Forced Servitude; Verbal Degradation and Depersonification (POV Character is referred to as an object/animal); Non Explicit On-Screen Violence and Death; Threat of Rape/Non-Con; References to Past Rape/Non-Con; Dissociation; References to Starvation and Weight Loss
> 
> **  
> Thanks for reading, comments/kudos appreciated!  
> 


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